


lost luggage

by roadhymns



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Sharing Clothes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9044102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadhymns/pseuds/roadhymns
Summary: Gaby’s suitcase doesn’t make their connecting flight.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackofSomeTrades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackofSomeTrades/gifts).



Gaby’s luggage doesn’t make their connecting flight.

They don’t discover this until several hours and half a continent later, of course, in the chilly wet of a rainy Dublin night, watching the rest of the passengers on the tarmac collect their bags and go, until the luggage compartment is empty. The steward leans out of the hatch to where Illya is waiting in the rain, face already set in an anticipatorily apologetic mask. Illya isn’t entirely sure what his own face must be doing at the moment - or what can be seen of it between his turned-up collar and pulled-low cap - but from the way the steward’s expression goes tight and frightened in addition to apologetic, he can hazard a guess.

“There’s nothing else here, Mr. -- ”

“Zvyagin,” Illya supplies, and has to clench his fists briefly within his coat pockets when the other man physically flinches. At the name, at his accent, at his tone - the specifics don’t particularly matter.

“Right, Mr. Zvyagin, well, there’s nothing else here. If you’d like to file a claim, they can help you inside.”

There are very few things he would like less to do, especially at the end of a stretch of air travel that followed immediately on the heels of a mission involving eight days of staking out a warehouse and culminating in five very exciting hours of running and shooting. He turns to look at Gaby, who is huddled under the wing of the plane for a bit of shelter. Her mod capelet - hardly able to stand up to a fine Dublin evening, if there is such a thing - is soaked through, and the hemline of her dress is wet enough to cling to her thighs. She looks tired and ill-tempered - a sentiment Illya can thoroughly empathize with - and a little bit lost, wet and washed-out in the harsh light and shadow of the tarmac.

For a moment, the idea of tucking her into his side, beneath his coat, for the walk back to the airport concourse is overwhelming. He has very nearly talked himself out of it when he remembers that they are once again supposed to be engaged, and no self-respecting fiance would allow his future wife, so recently victimized by careless airline employees, to walk unprotected through the rain. He goes to her, having to duck beneath the low swoop of the plane’s wing, and gathers the bags stacked there - his own luggage and his work case - juggling them so he can also hold open one side of his jacket. Gaby gives him an unimpressed look but crowds in anyway, and together they make it off the tarmac.

Inside, someone must be fetched to deal with their lost luggage claim, as it’s nearly midnight. While they wait, Illya takes a critical look at Gaby, who meets his eyes with a flat, frustrated look of her own.

“Anything in your suitcase?” he asks, setting his own down and fiddling with the lock mechanism.

“Just clothes, jewelry, and toiletries,” she says, and spreads her fingers against the damp leather of the large purse she had taken onto the plane with her. He knows that she keeps her most important or suspicious items within - her passport, a small pistol, a set of lockpicks that Solo has been teaching her to use during their downtime - and they had just given Waverly any physical intelligence they had acquired before being stuck on a plane, so it’s quite likely that her suitcase wouldn’t raise any particular suspicions, aside from perhaps the tracker he took the liberty of slipping into the lining. That’s a spot of fortune in an otherwise frustrating situation, at least.

He finishes unlatching his suitcase and fetches his other jacket from within. It’s a lighter material than the one he’s wearing, less waterproof, but it’s dry right now, and that’s the important thing.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to Gaby. She stares at him for a moment before pressing her lips together and peeling off her sodden capelet. He takes that from her before she can drop it onto one of the nearby chairs - or the floor, perhaps, where he has seen her discard dresses from the world’s top fashion houses as easily as the permanently-stained coveralls she has until now firmly insisted on keeping - and hands her the jacket in exchange.

It is, of course, laughably big on her, and the doleful look Gaby gives him tells Illya that she is prepared for some sort of comment to that effect, but honestly he doesn’t find it funny. It’s something else, the way he feels looking at Gaby wrapped in his jacket with only the very tips of her fingers peeking out of the sleeves, something hot and proprietary, and he clears his throat and turns his attention quickly to shaking out and folding the capelet he’s still holding rather than have to examine it further.

The actual claim process takes less time than expected; after providing the expected apologies for the inconvenience, all the manager wants is a description of the bag and the name of the hotel where they will be staying, in case it turns up. A sideways glance between them assures Illya that he and Gaby have the same thought: they will never see that suitcase again.

Before long, they are settled in the cab that the manager called for them, en route to their hotel. It’s an inauspicious start to their latest mission, especially as this was supposed to be an easy evening of setting up their cover while they waited for Solo to join them tomorrow afternoon, following a detour to meet with his CIA handler.

Illya finds himself stealing looks at Gaby, who is peering out of the rain-covered windows at the streets they’re passing. She’s still bundled in his jacket, and her damp hair is curling against the long line of her neck. After a moment, he says, “I am sorry about your suitcase.”

Gaby glances over at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve crossed a border with nothing but the clothes I’m already wearing,” she says. Her tone is wry, but Illya can see the white of her fingers where they’re wrapped around the strap of her purse. It’s barely been six weeks since Berlin, for all it feels like a lifetime; to have to start over again with nothing must be hard. He thinks for a moment of reaching out, of brushing his thumb over the pale ridge of her knuckles, but the reminder of his part in the first loss of the majority of her worldly belongings holds him back, and soon enough she goes back to looking out the window.

Their hotel is not so grand as some of the ones they’ve stayed in, but the service is quick. Their room is nice enough, with a set of twin beds, a couple of chairs, and a desk that doubles as a vanity. Gaby immediately announces her intention of making use of the hot water in the attached bathroom, and slips off Illya’s jacket before vanishing to do just that.

Illya returns to the lobby after that, looking for information. The concierge confirms his well-founded suspicions that no purveyor of women’s clothing is going to be open at half past midnight, but now he knows where he needs to go in the morning to get a start on rebuilding Gaby’s wardrobe with the essentials. Dublin is not Paris or Rome - or even London - but he can make do. Happily, the conversation with the concierge also turns up a complimentary toothbrush. It’s a paltry offering, but at least it’s something.

When he returns to the hotel room, he finds Gaby’s wet dress and underthings - predictably, he supposes - in a heap on the bathroom floor, and the woman herself still in the middle of a hot shower. He fetches his own toilertries bag from his case and leaves it on the bathroom counter, next to the spare toothbrush. Between the travel and the rain, Gaby’s dress will need to be cleaned before it can be worn again, which only strengthens his resolve to be up first thing in the morning to find her something to wear. Logically, he knows that it is not his fault that her bag was lost, but he hates the fact that he cannot immediately fix it for her. He contemplates just breaking into a boutique tonight, but the comparison of risk to reward compared to just waiting for the morning makes him balk, and he immediately discards the idea.

The tap turns off and he quickly slips from the bathroom. He gave the room only a perfunctory search earlier, and he takes this opportunity to do a more thorough job, though he’s sure it will turn up clean. Halfway through, he hears the latch on the bathroom door click, and he turns.

“Illya,” Gaby says, peering around the jamb, showing a sliver of shoulder and a flash of white towel, “I’m going to borrow your comb.”

“Of course,” he says, because what else can he say? “Whatever you need.”

The question suddenly occurs to him as she retreats again - what is she going to sleep in? Surely not just a towel. He gets up, stalks around for a minute as though a women’s pajama set might just be hiding in the corners of the room, then blows out a breath and heads for his own suitcase again. His sleepwear is utilitarian at best and will be wildly outsized for Gaby, but it must be better than nothing.

He raps on the bathroom door and waits for it to open again, then offers over the pajama set, making sure his face is schooled into something neutral.

Gaby blinks at the bundle of dark blue cotton, then looks up at him with a raised brow. “But what will you sleep in?” she asks, obviously amused.

He scoffs. “It’s no hardship, to sleep in day clothes.”

She rolls her eyes, but takes the pajamas from him anyway, shutting the door behind her.

Finishing the sweep takes a matter of moments, so he pulls out his case to check on his equipment while he waits for his turn at a shower. In no time, though, the door opens again, then his pajama bottoms land on the desk in front of him.

“Too big,” Gaby says, but when he turns to look at her, his response dies in his throat.

She’s wearing only his shirt, the neckline open nearly to her bosom, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. The slimness of her shoulders is only accentuated by his shirt, making her look small and delicate and perfect, all ruddy cheeks and dark eyes. It’s impossible, how something so oversized should end up covering so little. He’s never before really thought of what Gaby would look like in the morning after a night together, but he realizes with a start that this is probably it.

He stands suddenly. “Are you finished with the bathroom?” he asks, and even as he says it, he can tell it is too brusque, but Gaby only raises her eyebrows and steps aside. He sweeps the pajama pants from the desk, then gathers a few more things from his suitcase before practically fleeing. He has withstood torture that has tested his resolve less than the neckline of his shirt threatening to slip down Gaby’s shoulder.

He means only to take a quick shower, to freshen up after travel and being stuck in the rain, but as he strips off his clothes, his attention falls to the corner, where Gaby’s dress still lies in a pile - along with her underthings. Which means that she can’t be wearing anything under his nightshirt, that she is moving around their room naked but for a shirt that he has worn too many times to count. How will he ever manage to wear it again after tonight, knowing that?

He decides then and there that he had best make his shower a cold one.


End file.
